


Something Is Better Than Nothing

by Lohrendrell



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Background Geralt/Yennefer - Freeform, Background Jaskier/Eskel, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, No Actual Cheating, One-sided Extramarital Affair, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unrequited Love, but it's complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: “I was prepared to have an affair with you,” Jaskier says, slowly, too calm and collected.Or,Geralt tries to fix a broken—perhaps too broken—relationship.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 55
Collections: The Modern Witcher AU Collection, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	Something Is Better Than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> There are two things I looooove to write: good, healthy, soft relationships with a lot of fluff AND deeply broken relationships. This is a case of the latter x)
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of [Weyes Blood's "Andromeda"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aki1Xn36eJ8), which is also the soundtrack of this fic. I like to think Jaskier debuted the album that catapulted his career to fame with this song, or at least some bastardized version of it, though it didn't make it into the fic.
> 
> Many thanks for my dear friend Cai for looking this over for me <3

Had Geralt been a lesser man—which translates to a few years younger, really—he would never admit to how nervous he is. He would sit in this elegant table he is too big for, in this fancy restaurant Jaskier chose and that Geralt honestly has no idea how to properly conduct himself, and, with a frown that hopefully looked menacing enough for anyone who thought of approaching him, he would pretend to ignore how awkward he actually looked.

He is not that guy anymore, though. He is older, wiser and, although it took him a long time to admit, softer. It happens, Geralt thinks to himself, when one demolishes his inner walls and lets his entire self pour through the cracks; lets his true self flood the holes left by the tragedies of life, big and small, and that will certainly always be there no matter how much of himself—or perhaps precisely because—he fills them.

It’s just that by falling in love, getting married, having a child—by opening his heart out for affection and companionship, and, therefore, to the possibility of heartbreak… well. It put things in perspective. Geralt learned how to allow himself to be vulnerable. And even though learning something doesn’t necessarily make it less frightening, he knows this is something he must do.

It’s something he wants to do.

Because he can’t stand that distance anymore, that frost that permeated what had once been one of his closest relationships.

He is biting his nails, elbows on the table, the coffee he ordered and didn’t touch going cold in the fancy porcelain, when Jaskier arrives. Fashionably late, as usual.

“Well, well,” Jaskier says upon approaching, laughing as he sits on the other side of the table. “Don’t you look completely out of place here? This is hilarious.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt wills his voice to sound calm and collected, but it comes out more like a breathy whisper, a hopeful and tired one. He doesn’t want to hope the casual laughter is a good sign, but.

_But._

Jaskier doesn’t look at him as he orders for them both. He does, however, flirt with the waitress, with a smile so bright and easygoing that Geralt just knows from experience it means nothing. The young woman blushes a little and flees as fast as she can.

“So,” says Jaskier once they’re alone. He isn’t as loud as what Geralt remembers.

“So,” Geralt repeats. Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him. His hands are on his lap, where Geralt can’t see them.

“You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.”

“So?” Jaskier gesticulates vaguely with his shoulders. “Talk.”

Geralt just stares.

Jaskier sighs. “Still the mute brick, I see.” He mumbles, “I don’t have time for this,” and pulls his phone out from his pocket, and Geralt has a brief moment of subdued panic, or something similar, that drives him to say something, anything.

“You look good,” Geralt blurts out, if only to keep holding Jaskier’s attention.

Jaskier’s gaze on him is like a pin, holding Geralt in place while piercing him right in the middle. His eyes are still that very same shade of intense blue, Geralt notices, relieved, and then wonders why he thought they wouldn’t be.

“Healthy,” Geralt explains. “Energic. Young. Happy.”

Jaskier nods.

“And beautiful,” he finishes, and there it is. The Jaskier he knows—or knew once.

“I’m drop dead gorgeous, Geralt. I’ll let you know I was voted eye candy of the year by several magazines.” Jaskier punctuates it with a hand in his hair, messing with it a little bit right at the moment their waitress comes to them with a bottle of white wine. Jaskier smiles at her again, fumbling with his hair more than is probably necessary. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, in that silky voice of his. She is blushing harder.

He is still himself, Geralt thinks. He can’t help sighing in relief, and takes a sip of his wine. The waitress walks away, leaving the bottle with them.

“That’s good.”

“Ponzi Pinot Gris, 2018,” Jaskier says, savoring his own sip. “One of the best, if you ask me.”

Geralt allows himself a tiny smile, feeling a bit more relaxed. “You’ve gotten fancy.”

“I was always fancy. I just… didn’t have the means to enjoy that kind of life before.”

“I see.” Geralt watches as Jaskier sips more of his wine, for so long that Jaskier pours himself another glass, and then Geralt feels all too aware of himself. “I, uhm…” he tries. “I missed you.”

“Hm,” Jaskier mutters, in what could be a perfect imitation of Geralt from a few years back—from when they were still in speaking terms, and Jaskier called Geralt his best friend.

“I mean it, Jaskier.” Geralt wants to take Jaskier’s hand in his, rub his thumb through Jaskier’s fingers, but restrains himself. Those kinds of gestures, holding his hand, allowing him close, letting him rest his head on his shoulder—they ruined that great thing they had, led everything to shit. He won’t repeat the same mistake twice.

Jaskier sighs. “What do you want, Geralt?” He sounds pained and tired, and Geralt feels like he is bothering Jaskier. “Why did you call me?”

“To talk to you.”

“Why?”

“I… I missed you.”

“What prompted this sudden change of heart now?”

“I… I don’t want things—us—” Geralt gestures between them “—to be this way anymore.”

Jaskier sighs again, takes a long gulp of his wine. “You really hurt me. You know that, don’t you? You can’t possibly not know that.”

“I know,” Geralt says, plastering himself out for warmth, or bleeding, or soothing, or heartbreak. Anything Jaskier can give him, really. He learned to do that. He isn’t sure if he’s yet any good at it, but he hopes Jaskier can at least see that he has learned, that he has changed. “I heard it all in your songs.”

“You listen to my songs?”

Three years are enough time for Geralt to have listened to both of Jaskier’s released albums. And the soundtrack of that stupid show Geralt doesn’t like. And that one single he released not two months ago, only for his most loyals subscribers.

Geralt had enough time to munch over Jaskier’s lyrics, be angry at them, at Jaskier, at himself. Enough time to be embarrassed, in denial, and ultimately, digest what Jaskier was trying to say with his music.

A lot of his songs are about him, Geralt had enough time to realize. Or about them. Or just about disillusion. Jaskier sings a lot about unrequited love, heartbreak and betrayal, sometimes all of those things together, in some kind of form or variation.

Geralt thought he understood Jaskier, once, years ago, before he lost him. He thought he understood infatuation, thought he had Jaskier all figured out; believed that if only he didn’t acknowledge it, let Jaskier feel the things he needed to feel, keep treating him like he always did (which failed, given that, with time, Geralt allowed himself to be kinder, something that at first made Jaskier happy, but ultimately served only to destroy what they had), it would eventually go away and both of them—but mainly Geralt, he realizes it now—would be all right.

Geralt didn’t know how bad it was. Three years ago, and before that. He had no idea. Until it was too late.

(Maybe he had some idea.)

“I do. All of them.” A heartbeat later, Geralt adds, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier is looking straight at him, with those watery blue eyes. The last time Geralt saw them, they were red and drenched, Jaskier had been in tears, shouting _why, why, why_ , and it had been Geralt’s fault. “You know, Geralt, unrequited love sure is a bitch, but you know what’s worse?”

Jaskier isn’t as loud as he used to be, and that is both a relief and frightening. Geralt always knew how to navigate Jaskier before—or thought he did, at least.

“Being led on,” Jaskier says. “That, Geralt, is worse than suffering from unrequited love. Because at least you know where you stand, and you don’t feel like a fool, and you get the courtesy of maintaining your dignity while you pick yourself together.”

Geralt winces. There’s a song in his first album about that. He can’t look at Jaskier, so he looks at the bottle of wine. “I wasn’t trying to lead you on.”

Jaskier goes very quiet, and for a moment Geralt thinks he will get up and leave.

“I was prepared to have an affair with you,” Jaskier says, slowly, too calm and collected.

With the confidence of someone who had enough time to reach rock bottom, look at himself raw and filterless, and come back unscathed, Geralt realizes. 

“I was just waiting for you to ask. I was ready to be your dirty little secret, Geralt, and you know what? I was happy. And excited. I would do it, because I thought there was something between us. Something special and with that romantic touch of complicated. The way you acted, the way you looked at me when we were alone, the way you touched my hands when no one else was looking, I thought you reciprocated my feelings. I thought you just needed more time to admit it. If you had asked, Geralt… I’d give you anything.”

Geralt has nothing to say to that, so he says nothing. Their food arrives, Jaskier smiles at the waitress. She asks for an autograph and he signs on her little notebook. “With love,” he says, charmingly, making her, a grown up woman, giggle.

The food looks good and expensive. Geralt isn’t even sure he can afford it. It isn’t something Jaskier would worry anymore, he muses.

Neither of them even touch their plates.

“I’m glad you walked away from me,” Geralt says—stupidly, he realizes a tad bit too late. Jaskier tries to get up and leave, but Geralt stops him with a hand on his bicep. He has been working out, Geralt notes, and tries not to squeeze Jaskier’s muscled arm. “I mean because of me,” Geralt explains hurriedly, suplicantly, hoping nobody in the restaurant is paying attention to them; he hates attracting attention. “I mean because I was only hurting you without knowing.”

Jaskier sits again. “You knew.” 

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe not at first, but in the end. You knew it in the end. You knew how much I was in love with you.”

There is so much pain in those blue eyes. Geralt lets his head fall. His food is getting cold.

“Admit it, Geralt, please. For me.”

It took him a long time—too long for any normal human being with a normal amount of sensibility in his body—but eventually Geralt put the pieces together. The lingering touches, the softness of those eyes, the secret smiles meant only for Geralt. Jaskier looked at Geralt like he was the best thing in the world. Geralt loved that Jaskier did that.

At some point, Geralt couldn’t pinpoint when, he realized. And kept it to himself, because it was terrifying. And thrilling. Jaskier loved with an intensity no one else matched, not even Yennefer, and maybe—he can admit that now—Geralt had become addicted to it. He loved Jaskier, in his own way—a different way, a less romantic and more platonic way—and he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to let him down gently, with no damages. He was so afraid of losing his closest friend.

He chose. That was the truth. Geralt chose what he thought was the lesser evil: pretend to not know, be gentle, be there for Jaskier, hope those feelings would go away on their own. They didn’t. They ended up biting Geralt in the face. He lost Jaskier either way.

“I knew,” Geralt admits. “In the end, I knew. I had known for a little while. I’m sorry. I should have seen it all earlier. I should have said something. I should have been more straightforward. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier stares at him for a long time, scrutinizing Geralt. Geralt bares himself for Jaskier, hoping for…

He doesn’t even know.

Hoping for something. Anything.

“Say you’re sorry for allowing me to think we had something secret between us.”

“I’m sorry for allowing it.”

“Say you’re sorry for touching my hand when we were alone—for making a _habit_ out of it. For letting me snuggle up to you and yearn… I yearned so bad it ached, Geralt.” His voice gives out in the end, and Geralt recognizes the sound of unshed tears in Jaskier’s voice.

He is hurting. They both are. If Geralt could take up all the hurt for himself and shed Jaskier from it, he would.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, quiet, somber. “I’m sorry for it all.”

Jaskier says nothing, just starts to eat, and Geralt thinks it’s best to follow suit.

The silence between them is a cruel contrast to the chatter and cutlery sounds permeating that fancy, agitated restaurant. Geralt decides he hates that place.

The silence between them persists while they eat their food and while they pay. Jaskier picks up the tab and gives the waitress a generous tip, and doesn’t allow Geralt to pay his share. To show off or to avoid having any kind of debt to him? Geralt doesn’t know. He would know, three and a half years ago.

The wine bottle is gone by the time they are finished. Jaskier drank most of it, and Geralt wonders if he is driving. He wants to ask, worried, but isn’t sure if Jaskier will be offended. Isn’t sure if he still has the right to ask him something like that.

“You’re still her godfather,” Geralt says when Jaskier is preparing to leave. He pulls the piece of paper he had been holding in his pocket—the fancy invitation Yennefer insisted on making for that little list of theirs. “If you want to be.”

Jaskier only stares at him.

Geralt swallows dry. “Please want it,” he says.

Jaskier takes the invitation and leaves, saying nothing.

——

There’s nothing fancy about it, even though Geralt knows Yennefer and him are making a big deal of it. It’s just a court appointment, really, to sign the documents that give parental rights over Ciri in case of Yennefer and Geralt’s premature demise.

They decided to choose two people each. Just in case. Perhaps they are a bit too overprotective, but both agree it’s best to be safe than sorry. The judge calls for Triss first, a choice from Yennefer that didn’t surprise Geralt in the least. Tissaia goes second, and that choice had indeed surprised him. “It’s the closest thing I have to a mother,” Yennefer had explained to him. “Tissaia can be a lot of things, but at least she didn’t let me starve. She took care of me when I needed it. I trust her for that with Ciri, if nothing else.”

Geralt’s choices had been way more predictable: Jaskier and Eskel, chosen a long time ago, when Yennefer and him were still starting to talk about children. He wishes he could add a third option, but Vesemir is at that age where Geralt and his foster brothers feel they have to turn up at his place more often than not, mostly to check on his well being. The era of asking Vesemir for favours is long gone. He is starting to forget things. A few more years and they will be taking care of him full time.

The judge calls Eskel, who looks as out of place and weird as Geralt does in that suit and tie. Eskel might be a bit… rudimentary, but Geralt trusts him to care for Ciri if needed. Trusts him to send her to school, to listen to her, to give advice when needed. To do what a parent is supposed to do. And Jaskier… If there is anyone Geralt trusts to _love_ Ciri, wholehearted and boundless, it’s Jaskier.

Geralt is beyond relieved when the judge calls, “Julian Alfred Pankratz,” and Jaskier gets up from a seat in the corner and walks up to her. He doesn’t look at Geralt or Yennefer, but does sign his name next to Eskel’s. The two of them start to talk, and Geralt can breathe in easier now, knowing there are at least four people in the world that will look after his little girl if anything happens.

If there are scales to measure the amount of fuck-ups Geralt has accumulated over the years, Ciri is a testament of the possibility of redemption. If there is anything good in the world, it’s the reassurance that Ciri will never be left alone, abandoned at destiny’s mercy, like Geralt and Yennefer had been from a young age. 

Geralt is grateful. He really is. He lets Yennefer do the honors of thanking them, though, and after the judge, not unkindly, mocks them with, “That’s quite the list you two have there,” Yennefer invites everyone for a beer, the certificate secure in her purse. They are all smiles and gazes of affection.

Geralt doesn’t expect Jaskier to be the only one to decline.

——

They hold a proper party for Ciri less than a week later. She is turning three, just old enough to enjoy being the center of attention and to deny her parents’ company while she strolls around, basking on the attention the guests are giving her. She still doesn’t have that many friends her age, but Yennefer is trying to fix that. She invited a whole bunch of people Geralt has never seen before, which is making him uncomfortable, especially when he falls prey to their attempts of conversation.

Geralt does his best, but even he can recognize his best on that matter is… not much.

“Do I need to save you?”

Geralt turns around, struck with surprise when he sees Jaskier leaning on the kitchen entrance, smirking at him half mockingly, half fondly.

“What? Seen a ghost or something?”

“I didn’t know you were still in town,” Geralt says, dumbly.

“Tsk. You ask me to be your daughter’s godfather and then expect me to be absent for her birthday.” Jaskier shakes his head. “Classic Geralt. Are you going to offer me a beer?”

Geralt opens up a bottle hurriedly and hands it to Jaskier. “You shouldn’t drink it in front of the kids. Yennefer—”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly excited to talk to the kids.”

For a moment, Geralt expects Jaskier to stay, to smile at him, to talk to him and make everything go back to the way it was before, to just _stay_ , but Jaskier turns around and walks outside. Eskel is outside too, Geralt notices, and considers joining them. But they start talking, and Eskel says something that makes Jaskier laugh, and then Eskel is laughing too, and Geralt doesn’t want to ruin that.

So he goes back to the other parents he doesn't even know.

——

Eskel wants to spend some time with Ciri after the party, which sounds great for Geralt, who feels even more confident in his decision of picking Eskel as one of her godparents. It also works just fine for Geralt and Yennefer, who, quite honestly, needed a little break from parenthood, just for a little while. They lock themselves in their bedroom upstairs while Ciri opens her presents downstairs. Yennefer is feeling accomplished and satisfied, which is her best mood for sex, and their lovemaking is even greater this time for the plus of not needing to worry about Ciri interrupting them with crying or by straight up opening the door on them.

It’s hot and satisfying, but it’s just a quickie. A while later, after shower and a change of clothes, Geralt goes down the stairs, expecting to find Ciri and Eskel playing or talking, or maybe sleeping—it’s all very quiet.

He is taken by surprise for a second time that day when he sees Jaskier instead. They are on the couch, Ciri is sleeping, her head on Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier is caressing her blond hair, and his hand on her hair looks so damn _right_. His hand is still delicate looking despite the calloused fingers from playing so much, a contrast Geralt has always found intriguing. Ciri looks comfortable there. She is grasping a dinosaur plushie Geralt doesn’t recognize—probably one of her presents.

“Dick move,” Jaskier says, though there’s no bite to it.

Geralt doesn’t ask what was a dick move. He knows. “Where’s Eskel?”

“At the station. Fire alarm, apparently they were short of people, Eskel was the first one they could reach.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t know what to do. It feels wrong to take Ciri away, but it feels worse to force Jaskier to stay longer than he ever needed to be—than what he probably intended.

Yennefer appears a moment later and has pretty much the same reaction as Geralt. “It’s late,” she says, taking Ciri in her arms and carrying her upstairs. She and Jaskier are courteous to each other.

Jaskier gets up, pats his clothes, and heads to the door. Geralt stops him with an open bottle of beer. “Beer?” he offers, not sounding at all as smooth and confident as he wishes.

Jaskier eyes him with a bit of suspicion, but then shrugs. “Sure.”

They sit in a couple of chairs that decorate the front lawn. Yennefer hand picked them when they moved.

“Your house is nice,” says Jaskier after a couple of gulps, speech somewhat slurred. Geralt saw the amount of bottles in the trash can in the kitchen. He can’t be sure if they were all Jaskier’s, and he can’t ask, but he wonders if Jaskier is okay to drive. His car is a fancy one, parked in the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

“Thank you.”

“Very different from the duplex.”

“Yennefer wanted somewhere cozy and big for Ciri to grow up. You know, for her to run around and play.”

Jaskier nods, takes another sip of his beer.

“Thank you for taking care of her.”

Jaskier snorts. “She _is_ my goddaughter, Geralt. It’s my pleasure.” Geralt feels a pang of gratitude in his chest, though he doesn’t know how to express it. “Besides,” Jaskier says, eyeing him now with mirth. “I’ll get my revenge once she opens my gift.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll know when you hear it.”

“Hear it.”

Jaskier snickers. “I bet your daughter has a knack for music, same as her godfather. Cheers for her loud, loud introduction to the musical world.”

Geralt breathes in exasperation, although in reality it is mixed with some amusement of his own. Of course Jaskier would do something like that.

They drink together in a companionable silence, which is so different from what Geralt is used to when being with Jaskier, but it’s also fitting. Jaskier isn’t the same young man Geralt once knew; he is quieter, more mature, subdued. Geralt still hasn’t decided if that’s a good thing—still hasn’t fully discovered if it’s who Jaskier became or if it’s who he is with him—but he isn’t about to question or complain.

He missed this. Missed Jaskier’s company.

“Geralt, why did you invite me for a beer?”

“I wanted to spend some time with you. Talk to you.”

“About what?”

Geralt sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. This is so difficult. This is going to be difficult forever, isn’t it? “Listen, Jaskier, I…” Geralt tries once more to apologize, to try and make amends, but Jaskier cuts him off.

“Does Yennefer know?”

Does Yennefer know about what, Geralt wants to ask, only to stall, but knows it’s useless. He knows what he is talking about. Geralt gulps at his beer, swallows dry even with the liquid going down his throat before answering. “A little bit.”

“How much?”

“She doesn’t know you were, uh… She thinks we had a fall out over your career. Thinks fame went up to your head.”

Jaskier snorts. “You and I both know Yennefer is too smart to really think that.”

Geralt winces. “She suspected. Always did. But I never confirmed it.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t see the point. Just create tension where it doesn’t need to be.”

“Because there was nothing to it on your side, you mean.”

Geralt turns to Jaskier, finds him staring back straight at him with those big blue eyes. “I had enough already of betraying you. Your trust, I mean.”

Jaskier eyes him for a long time, until he doesn’t. He looks at the suburban street Geralt is living now, a stark contrast to the places where he grew up, to the places he shared with Jaskier in their youth.

“You know, Geralt, what is the most annoying thing about you?”

“That I’m an asshole?” Geralt says, expecting a jab, prepared for another session of being dragged to the mud at Jaskier’s hands. This time he will be more brutal than at the restaurant, Geralt is sure, if only because they are somewhat secluded in Geralt and Yennefer’s lawn. Maybe Jaskier will punch him. Geralt will let him, if he tries to.

“A kindhearted one,” says Jaskier, nodding.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. His beer is over. He nods, accepting Jaskier’s words.

“You hate hurting people,” Jaskier elaborates, unprompted. “But you do it anyway, and quite often, might I add. And when you do, it’s not out of malice, it’s out of your own asinine sense of… I don’t even know, really. It’s difficult to stay mad at you when I know you don’t really mean the things you say, don’t really think about the things you do. And it hurts knowing you so well to have this perception, you know why? Because I can never trust I won’t end up getting hurt because of you again just because you’re… You.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jaskier continues. “You’re a great guy. A great friend, a great husband, a great father. It’s my fault, too, I know. I shouldn’t have wished so much. Shouldn’t have let myself dream. Should have been more straightforward with you from the beginning. Should have stopped you and asked what the fuck you thought was going on. But…”

But, Geralt thinks. There’s always a ‘but’.

“I won’t apologize for falling in love with you and having my heart broken,” Jaskier says, “though I do regret not handling rejection well. And I don’t expect you to apologize for not loving me back, even though I still think it was a dick move to lead me on like that.”

“I didn’t—” Geralt starts, but thinks better of it. “I just want things to go back to normal, Jaskier. The way they always were.”

Jaskier gives him a sad smile. “Oh, Geralt.” His voice is quiet, melancholic. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

He gets up.

“Thank you for the beer.” He handles Geralt the empty bottle. “Tell Cirilla I love her and I’ll be in touch with her.”

He walks to the other side of the street, enters his fancy car, and drives away.

Geralt honestly would prefer if Jaskier had just punched him.

——

Geralt stops trying.

As much as it pains him to do so, he accepts it, settling resolutely for the faint memories of a life before. Before, when his life was permeated with different kinds of adventures than those parenthood brings him. Before, when he had those very specific gazes of his once best friend directed at him and only him. Before, when he had that loud and annoying laughter almost as an alarm clock to his daily life.

Before, when he knew what it was to be loved by someone like Jaskier.

Geralt can’t say he is unhappy. Quite the contrary. He loves Yennefer, he really does, he loves being a father, and he wouldn’t trade his life with her and Ciri for anything else in the world. It’s just… Yennefer’s love is different from Jaskier’s. It is as fierce and unrelenting as herself, while Jaskier’s was always… Like Jaskier. Free. Scandalous. Easy. Uncomfortable. Light.

Geralt is selfish. He knows that now. He didn’t think he had it in him, growing up with so little and learning to not want for things, but this is something he is now, apparently. Selfish and yearning for something he lost and will never get back.

Ciri is addicted to that little stupid piano toy of hers. It plays a total of eight thirty-seconds lengthened songs, one more annoying than the other. Ciri amuses herself by touching the buttons and singing along the entire day, every day, and Geralt wants to break that damn toy.

——

One day, a couple of months later, his cell phone rings, and Geralt is taken by surprise when he sees Jaskier’s name on the display.

“Yes?” he answers, careful. He feels like he is doing something dirty, locking himself in his office at home and speaking in a low tone of voice.

“I want to ask you,” Jaskier says over the phone, not bothering to even say hello, “about Eskel.” It’s so different from what he used to be, all chit-chatty, sometimes taking up hours (literally) over the phone before breaching the matter why he had called.

“What about Eskel?”

“What… What does he like?”

“What?”

“What does he like?”

“Lots of things,” says Geralt. “What do you mean?”

“Sports? Movies? What kind of movies? Where does he like to go out? What does he like to do?”

It dawns on Geralt as if someone had thrown a bucket full of ice and cold water. Oh.

Oh.

He wasn’t expecting that. In retrospect, flashbacks of several moments he witnessed over the last months pass through his mind, as if he were watching a montage in a movie. Eskel and Jaskier talking at Ciri’s birthday party. Jaskier staying late to spend time with Ciri _and_ Eskel. Jaskier and Eskel focused on each other mid-conversation, zoning everyone else out. Eskel genuinely laughing at Jaskier’s jokes, not trying to hide his facial scars and missing front tooth, as he was prone to do.

“He, uh…” He will like anything, as long as it is with you, Geralt almost says, because he knows, and he’s been in that position before, and Eskel deserves it so much. So much more than him. “You could try bowling. Camping too, he loves it.”

“I hate camping.”

Geralt can’t help the fond smile creeping up his face. “I know.”

“What else? I need options, Geralt.”

“Farm hotel. He loves farm animals.”

“Oh, that’s quite good, actually.”

“Yeah.” Geralt sighs. “It is.”

——

Geralt watches from afar as this thing between Eskel and Jaskier blooms. He doesn’t pry, does his best to not intervene and not appear overly interested. None of them are interested in disclosing anything with him, except for the occasional plea for advice on each other’s personality, likes, and stupid stuff like that.

Geralt is… fine. Or will be. Someday.

“You know, they actually make a good couple,” Yennefer says to him one day, hugging his shoulders from behind. Geralt is putting together another album of photos of Ciri’s childhood, this section dedicated to her four godparents. In Geralt’s hands there is a photo of Eskel and Jaskier playing with Ciri in some sort of theme park or something; Geralt didn’t go with them that day. “An odd one, but still.”

“Hm.” Geralt gives his back to the album of photos, kisses his wife, presses her body close to his. Ciri won’t be back with Triss from the park for another hour, perhaps they’ll have enough time for a quickie.

——

“Geralt?”

Jaskier finds him alone in the backyard of the house, where Geralt is putting together an inflatable jumping castle. He already hates the too bright thing that is certain to cause mayhem at the most inconvenient time at the party. It’s Ciri’s fourth birthday, the party is about to start in an hour or so, and this is only the second or third time Jaskier has stopped by in a full year. Certainly the first time he’s been alone with Geralt in that same time.

They aren’t on speaking terms, precisely, but it’s not like Jaskier is ghosting Geralt either. They haven’t spoken or seen each other in well over six months, with the release of Jaskier’s new album and, well, his blatant avoidance of Geralt. But Geralt has the impression Jaskier is always there, gravitating around his life, somewhere in the corner. So he is always aware of his whereabouts or what he’s doing, either through Eskel or Ciri or Yennefer (who speaks more to him than Geralt does, though it’s still not a lot), or, when Geralt is feeling particularly desperate, through the celebrity gossip websites he has since learned to visit.

“Look, uh… This thing with Eskel. It’s not… It’s not revenge, Geralt. It just happened.”

Geralt lets his shoulders fall, forces himself to breathe, to get rid of the tension. “I know,” he says.

“How can you know?”

Because his newest album has less songs about betrayal and heartbreak and more songs about newfound love. Positive love. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“You could,” Geralt says. “But you wouldn’t. Not you.”

“You don’t know me anymore.”

Geralt nods. That’s true. “Still trust you,” he says, and realizes that is maybe the wrong thing to say, with the way Jaskier huffs and sniffs.

Geralt doesn’t turn around to look at him. He can’t stomach it if Jaskier is crying, neither if he isn’t.

“I’m throwing Eskel a birthday party next month,” Jaskier says after a couple of minutes of silence. “He’s never had one and I plan to fix that. You, uh… You can come, if you want. Just… please, uh… Please don’t—don’t make it weird, all right?”

“I’ll be there,” Geralt says, and doesn’t turn around when Jaskier’s footsteps drift away.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments put a smile upon my face ♡


End file.
